


The One Where Sherlock Isn't Dead

by Cartwheelrobin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fem!John - Freeform, S3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 06:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12524900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cartwheelrobin/pseuds/Cartwheelrobin
Summary: What should have happened at dinner was she’d get engaged to Mark, she’d plan a wedding, get married, have a kid or two, and live happily ever after. What happened instead was her dead best friend came back to life. Or just showed up back in hers. The one where Sherlock ins't dead and Joan has to make a few choices.





	1. Chapter 1

Life was finally falling back together for Joan. She was with a man who loved her and she was almost certain she loved him. Mark Morstan was the man she had been waiting for. He had saved her. Two years ago she was broken and confused and without a purpose. Because before he had leapt from that rudy roof, he was all she had. All she wanted. And then he was gone. And Joan moved on, as people do. 

She was dressed in a nice gown that was a rich navy color, sipping at a glass of wine, smiling more brightly than she had in ages. Because she was happy. “You look lovely tonight. But you already know that.” He said, grinning at her and running a hand through his blonde tresses that had a hint of grey to it, if you looked close enough. 

“I know.” She beamed at him. “But I like to hear you say it anyways.” 

Mark was a good man. A solid man. Joan reveled in his solidity. 

His brown eyes darted around a bit and he licked his lips. It was a tick Joan had picked up from him; something she did when she was thoughtful or nervous now. “Good. Because I don’t want to stop telling you. Ever.” 

Mark stood and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small red velvet box. Joan could hear her heartbeat in her ears. She set down her wine glass, scared she might drop it. “This last year has been wonderful. The best, actually. And I just want to say-” His words were cut off by a waiter coming up behind her, holding out a wine list she had already seen. 

“I’m sorry, we are sort of in the middle of-” As she spoke she glanced back at the waiter, ready to shoot him a look and tell him off, but was met with something far more infuriating than an interrupting waiter. The mustache was a bit much and the glasses didn’t fit his face shape at all. But she didn’t see any of that. All she saw was red. 

Joan stood fiercely, almost tripping over her dress, slamming a hard fist on the table, knocking over her wine glass. They were starting to get odd looks from the other tables around them. Mark stood up from where he had been kneeling on one knee, moving closer to Joan. 

Sherlock cracked a small, sheepish grin, wiping away his drawn on mustache and removing his glasses that must have been pickpocketed. “We’ve got a wonderful chardonnay on hand tonight.” He said in a terrible french accent. 

Joan was practically shaking with anger, deciding if they’d make her pay for the wine glass if she cracked him over the head with it. “Bloody hell. You’re him them, aren’t you. Sherlock Holmes. You’re supposed to be dead.” Mark said, more amused than Joan would like. 

Sherlock cleared his throat as he undid the terribly placed ascot around his neck. “Yes, well. Here I am. Not dead.” His last two words rumbled inside of Joan. It was a voice she hadn’t been able to get out of her head for weeks, months, years. And here she was, finally having found her peace. And here he was, alive and dragging her right out of it. 

“You know I-” Sherlock began, but was bluntly cut off by Joan’s remarkable right hook. It sent him tumbling to the ground and he even had the nerve to look shocked. 

“It’s really him, isn’t it?” Mark asked, not really expecting an answer.

Joan let out a scream of anger and resentment and pain. She was small, but having knocked the detective down she managed to stand over him. “Two years. Two bloody years you had me think that you were dead. I buried you, Sherlock. I wept at your funeral and all you have to say after two years of being gone and not contacting me, leaving me behind, is not dead?” 

She wanted to rip her hair out, or rip his hair out or something, but she couldn’t muster the courage to do anything other than stare at him now. He looked the same as he always had. Maybe a little more surprised than his usual uninterested expression. His hair was more disheveled and he developed a bit of a tan, but he looked the way she remembered him, and how she saw him in her dreams. And nightmares. 

And then she proceeded to step over him and walk out, not really knowing what else to do, or to say. She didn’t want him or Mark to see her cry.  
**~**  
“You’ve got some bloody good timing, mate.” The blond man said, offering him a hand to help him up. Sherlock brushed off his trousers and studied the man in front of him. It was odd, he couldn’t quite get a read other than the fact that he was mid thirties and a doctor and had been at dinner with Joan. Odd, he should be able to deduce more than that. 

Sherlock glanced back towards Joan, not daring to chase after her right now. He didn’t really fancy another blow to the face. “What do you mean?” He asked, turning back to the man who had the scent of Joan’s perfume on his suit jacket. She still worse the same brand,but oh god. They were sleeping together. 

The man didn’t answer Sherlock, but instead tossed him a little red velvet box. He opened it with a small pop! and bit the inside of his cheek. Now this was a bit not good. “Oh.” Was all he could manage at the moment.  
**~**  
Joan had gotten a cab back to her flat, eyes dry the whole way there. All she could do was think about what she was going to do next. But she really couldn’t come up with any good ideas at the moment either. This night was not how she had planned it going. It didn’t play out like it should have. Her life was finally whole and in walked Sherlock, the bloody idiot, tearing it into pieces again.

What should have happened at dinner was she’d get engaged to Mark, she’d plan a wedding, get married, have a kid or two, and live happily ever after. What happened instead was her dead best friend came back to life. Or just showed up back in hers. 

Her cab finally pulled up to the curb of her flat and she stepped out, instantly pulling her heels off and holding them in her hand as she unlocked the door, tossing them next to her coat rack. This place wasn’t Baker Street, but it had become home. 

She wiped away her makeup, brushed her hair out, and put on her pajamas before crawling into her bed, looking at her mobile. She had gotten two text from Mark asking her if she was alright and if she made it home okay. Of course he knew she was headed home. He just knew these things about her. She shot him back a quick text saying she was alright and then rolled over in bed, wondering if he was close behind.  
**~**  
_“Sherlock, I think we need to have a talk.” Joan said, dumping an extra sugar cube in her tea for good measure. She tried to steady her breath so that he wouldn’t notice she was about to enter murky territory. Then again, he didn’t quite notice things like breath and eye movement about her anymore, she thought._

_He looked up from his morning paper, setting down the shears he had been butchering it with as well. “No we don’t.” He quipped. “Whatever it is you think you need to tell me, you don’t. I can assure you, it will be easier to just forget it.”_

_Joan was taken back a bit, wondering if he knew what was weighing on her mind or if he just wanted her to shut up. She pushed down whatever it was she was actually going to tell him and brought up another topic instead. “It’s nothing like that. I was just going to say, you can’t go about ripping up the paper before I get a chance to read it.”_

_His eyes met hers for a moment and something unspoken passed between them. An agreement of sorts only they knew of, but would never say._

_“Honestly, Joan. Print media is dying. Read the articles you want online.” And with that she continued to drink her tea and he picked up the shears once more, cutting out another article._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had put some great thought into whether or not she wanted Sherlock back in her life. Last night before she drifted off to sleep she decided she’d at least give him a chance to explain. Not to mention she had questions. And she was probably able to ask them now without biting his head off first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commets are greatly appricated! Hope you guys are enjoying this.

It had been two weeks since Sherlock had crashed her dinner Two weeks of her knowing Sherlock was alive. Two weeks of him back in London and her actively avoiding him. The sun was shining through the curtains of her and Mark’s small kitchen as she put the kettle on for tea. She was positive the saturday sunlight would turn into an overcast afternoon. 

Joan always woke up before Mark. She never has slept well, before and after the fall. And here she was, thinking about the bloody git again. It was infuriating how easily he could root his way back into her life. With a huff ,she set down two mugs and dropped in the tea bags, waiting on the water to boil. 

She heard the bedroom door open and Mark padded in, wearing only his pants. It would have been a welcome sight a few weeks ago, but all she could think about was how a certain dressing gown would make things more homely. 

He walked up behind her, arms wrapping around her waist, his nose nuzzling into her still tangled hair. “Morning, love.” He mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. It was deep and luscious and familiar. Joan grinned. 

“Morning. I’m making tea.” She said, even though she was sure she didn’t have to. He let out a soft sigh, pressed his lips to her head and then sat down at their (hardly passing for a) kitchen table. 

“So. Two questions. Will you marry me? And are you going to talk to him yet?” He asked, just like he had every morning for the last two weeks. Joan’s mind had changed about one of them. 

She had put some great thought into whether or not she wanted Sherlock back in her life. Last night before she drifted off to sleep she decided she’d at least give him a chance to explain. Not to mention she had questions. And she was probably able to ask them now without biting his head off first. “I’ve texted him. We are getting lunch today. And as for marriage I need to think.” 

Mark tutted, seeming amused that she was finally going to talk to Sherlock. And he was patient, bless him. He must know that if Sherlock hadn’t shown up her answer would have been yes, no questions asked. But that wasn’t what had happened. “Good. What are you going to say to him? You can’t exactly hit him again, can you?” 

Joan turned on him, giving him a little grin. “No, but I can just as well hit you.” She said, teasingly. “But I think I just want to know why. I’ll never understand how his mind works, but I can at least try.”  
“I like him. And I think it’ll be good for you.” He said, standing again as the kettle whistled. He grabbed it off the stove and poured them their morning cuppas. 

“Oh, and you know what’s good for me then?” She quipped, a playful smirk on her lips. Their banter had been a game of cat and mouse for a while now. 

Mark, after dumping four sugar cubes into his tea, sipped at it and looked up at her, eyes darker than before. “I am a doctor after all.” 

“And what are the doctor’s orders then?” She said, not even bothering to pick up her mug. He didn’t reply, but instead captured her lips with his, pressing her into the counter with his hips, hands on either side of her, caging her in. 

An hour later she finally showered and dressed for lunch, feeling much more optimistic about things. Mark walked into the foyer, slipping on his shoes and keys in hand. “I’ve got some files to organize at the office, love. See you later tonight?” He asked. She already knew he would. 

**~**

Joan was dressed like she always was. Jumper and denim. Only now her hair was much shorter than it had been two years ago. She had chopped it off so that it hit right at her chin about three months into dating Mark. She thought it made her look sexy or something. 

She pushed through the door of the cafe, swallowing thickly. She agreed for lunch. She thought she was ready, but the closer she got to the booth, the more she felt unprepared. And there he was, sitting, his hands folded in front of his face, deep in thought. He looked like a panther, Joan thought. Predatory and aware. But alluring and spellbinding too. Up until now she had been different from everyone else. Everyone but her thought him to be dangerous. She just thought he was fascinating. Now she knew that he could hurt her. 

He looked up at her as she sat down in front of him, wondering what he could want. Wondering if he thought things would just go back to the way they had been. 

“Joan, there were eleven possible options once I was up on that roof and only one of them resulted in me making it off of it alive.” He said, jumping into his speech as if he thought she was wanting to know how. As if that was the first thing to pop into her mind. “Once Moriarty shot himself, I could possibly jump from the fire escape, but the landing would be too harsh of an angle and I couldn’t have possibly survived the fall. So that left me with-” 

The blonde crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head. “I don’t care how you did it. I don’t want to know.” 

Sherlock looked taken back a bit, as if he hadn’t factored that in. “I want to know why.” A sudden lump was in her throat. “Why you left me behind.” She said rather than asking, her voice wavering.   
He waited a few moments before he spoke again. “I had to make sure there were no loose ends. I had to cut down every corner of Moriarty’s operation. It just so happened to take two years before it was safe to come back. Before I knew you would be safe.” It broke Joan’s heart to know that he thought he was doing the right thing. 

“Who helped you then? You couldn’t have done it on your own.” She leaned forward, this sudden realization tearing through her in another fit of anger. 

**~**

Sherlock answered without hesitation. He’d answer all her questions, if that’s what it took to bring her back. “Molly Hooper.” 

Molly had been an easy choice. She never got angry at Sherlock like Joan did and was a little too eager to help as well. She would be the one to do his autopsy. So if she knew he wasn’t dead she would be able to come up with another body to bury and no one would question her when she told them everything was in order. 

He would have taken it all back if it could wipe the look of pain from Joan’s face. 

“Molly.” She said. There was obvious traces of jealousy in her voice. Sherlock never understood why Joan and Molly never got on. Molly was desperate and ordinary. Her fantasy version of himself was one that domesticated him, made him mundane. Joan only saw him for who he was and has never asked from him more than he could give. There was no competition when it came to the two, let alone anyone. He would always choose Joan. “Who else then?” 

Of course there were others. Joan wasn’t so dim to think that he could have done it alone and with only the help of Molly Hooper. “The homeless network, of course. And Mycroft.”   
“Swear to God!” She shouted, far louder than she should have. Far louder than he expected her too. 

“What?” He asked, wondering when she would get over this and things could go back to the way they had been. There were pressing matters. A terrorist ring was targeting parliament as they spoke and he quite frankly needed her help. She cleared his mind. Solving crimes on his own was tedious. He needed her there to point out the obvious sometimes. It was refreshing. 

“Oh, nothing. It’s just Molly Hooper, the entire British government, and a handful of tramps knew you were alive, but you couldn’t tell me?” Her words were meant to sting, but they didn’t. As he said before, he wasn’t willing to risk her life. “Is there anyone who doesn’t know that the bloody idiot, Sherlock Holmes, is alive?” She said, sitting up awkwardly in the booth. 

“Quiet. And I couldn’t risk you knowing. I couldn’t risk something slipping.” 

**~**

That set her off. She no longer wanted to be here. She couldn’t bare to hear him speak to her like she was the idiot her tolerated anymore. She wanted to hit something, or curl up in a ball and cry. Instead she stood from the booth and stormed off in a manner that was far less calm than her exit from the dinner two weeks ago. 

He followed her this time too, the git. 

She was stomping her way down the sidewalk by the time he caught up to her. “Joan, wait.” He called, his belstaff coat breezing behind him. She turned, pointing a finger at him, crowding him up against the side of a building. It must have looked quite humorous to the onlookers. He stood a head over her, all dark and mysterious with his curls and cheekbones and she was soft edges and wearing a bloody jumper. But nonetheless she was standing her ground, eyes shooting daggers up at him. 

“We were supposed to trust each other, Sherlock. We had each other and that was it. It was us against the world. And then you left me. You went away and told everyone that mattered, but me. You can not just walk back into my life and expect that trust to be extended to you again after you’ve hurt me the way you have.” It was as if a weight had been lifted off her chest. Her shoulders untensed and she dropped her hand, taking a step back. All the rage and betrayal she had felt for the last two weeks was finally spit back out at him. It felt good. 

They stood there, just staring at each other, eyes meeting. She had forgotten how in tune they were, even if they never spoke of it. Maybe she had missed him. Maybe she wanted back in, but right now he couldn’t know that. “I’m sorry.” He said, breaking the silence. 

Still looking into his eyes she knew he meant it. That was the hard part about Sherlock. Because, even when he mucks up so bad, he has no idea he’s doing it. He has the best intentions in possibly the worst way. 

“Alright.” She said, because she couldn’t muster the words ‘I forgive you.’ And she wasn’t quite sure she did yet. 

He cracked a small smile and her heart melted. “So, are you really keeping your hair like that? It ages you.” 

Joan punched him a little harder than she should have in the arm. “Can it. I’ll be by the flat sometime this week. I haven’t seen Mrs. Hudson in ages.” 

**~**

_“You do know what you’ve gotten yourself into, don’t you, Miss Watson?” Mycroft said, sitting in Sherlock’s chair. It always bothered her when he did that. Sometimes she thought he loved his brother and then other times she got the notion his entire existence was merely to just undermine Sherlock’s._

_She busied herself with making tea, knowing that if she had to look him in the eye she would be offput for the rest of the afternoon. “Of course I do. I’ve been living with Sherlock for the better part of a year now. I’m quite adjusted.”_

_Mycroft shook his head at her, folding his hands into his lap. She wondered what he would be doing if he wasn’t in politics. Well, if he wasn’t politics. “My dear, that isn’t what I mean. You’ve grown attached and that is a mistake. He’ll keep you around for a bit because it’s good for him and then something will happen or change and you’ll be left on the curb. I don’t want to watch you get hurt. My brother isn’t aware of the ruins he leaves around him.” The British government wasn’t one for emotions, but Joan swore she heard a hint of pain in his voice. As if he knew first hand how reckless Sherlock could be._

_But she wasn’t one to take advice from older men either. “Thank you, Mycroft, for the touching concern, but I’m fine here. Thanks.” She poured the steaming water into her mug, knowing not to offer him any, and not wanting to._

_He stood and walked towards the kitchen. “If that’s all you came here to say, you can see yourself out. I have work to be doing.” Her words weren’t harsh, but they didn’t hold any kindness either._

_“I truly do hope you reconsider this, my dear.” He said, plucking his umbrella that had been leaning next to the door._

_“Don’t call me dear.”_


End file.
